


Hearts and Minds

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik and Charles hit the open road in search of mutant recruits. This is how they pass the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts and Minds

Four days on the road, and already Erik has begun to tire of their quest. Few of the mutants they've tracked down have been receptive to Charles' diplomacy, and yet more refused to even talk to them, wanting nothing to do with a government project. They're mostly children, and so scared. To them, what Charles is offering -- a world where mutants won't shrink to the fringes of society -- might as well be a fairytale, no more obtainable than the riches of El Dorado.

Erik tells Charles as much as they slide into a greasy diner booth in Philadelphia.

"But children," Charles contests, every bit as earnest as the first day Erik met him, "are adaptable. They're the one hope we have. They _must_ believe it's possible to change the way we live."

"I was twelve when I first realized I was different--"

"Seven. I was seven."

Erik ignores him, continuing, "And until a week ago, I thought I was alone in this. I heard rumors from time to time. Of the man who could move objects with his mind, and another who created electricity out of nothing, simply by waving a hand. Or a woman who breathed under water. But they were rumors alone, Charles. The kind a mother uses to keep her children from straying too far from home, like the dire wolf. Such stories have always existed."

"And the man who can manipulate magnetism?"

Erik sniffs. "A playbill from the Munich Circus. Who would believe such a thing without meeting him?"

Charles doesn't reply at first. He takes his time to scan the menu, a knit forming on his brow. And then, "It's a lonely life, Erik. I'm sure you can understand that."

"Yes."

"Then haven't we a debt to our kind? Surely we must try."

"I'm not accustomed to owe."

Any reply Charles would have made is stifled by the waitress' approach. "'Evening," she says, not looking up from her notepad. "Specials tonight are--"

"Just coffee," says Erik.

Charles meets his eye: _Lost your appetite?_ And aloud, "I'll have the cheeseburger. And a vanilla milkshake."

When she has gone, Erik says softly, "And her? Do you think if she knew what we are, would she accept it? If she knew what we're capable of?"

"Some mutants have the ability to cause great destruction, yes. As do humans. But nothing is pre-determined. We choose how to use our gifts-- and again, that is our debt. To use them for good."

Erik shakes his head, tiring of this. Charles is capable of _so much_. At least as much as himself, and at times like these Erik wonders if Charles even knows it. But Erik also senses that behind Charles' smooth facade there lies a vast reservoir of untapped power.

He's come too far to let it go unacknowledged. "If you wanted to, you could _make_ them accept us. No, Charles. Don't protest. Save your sermon for someone else," he says. "You could go into their minds and meddle, just enough."

***

Here is something about Charles which doesn't annoy Erik. Not in any real way.

And that something is this: Charles has a sweet tooth.

Erik sometimes catches him popping hard candies into his mouth. Starlight mints (for concentration, Charles says), English toffee (for the memory) -- each an afterthought while he pours over his notes or delves into some book or other. Before bed, Charles fixes himself steaming cups of cocoa spiked with whisky just as Erik takes his whisky neat; beside the fire, he sips fine, blood-dark port sided with spiced chocolate.

The taste of him took some getting used to. For so long, Erik knew only the metallic, earth and salt.

But Charles is still sharp in all the right places, and while this oft-present sugared tang is incongruous, it's not unwanted. Even Erik is susceptible to indulgence.

***

The motel room they share that night is shabby and cramped. They all have been. Erik knows it would hardly stretch Charles' resources to spend a little more on lodging: Charles has deep pockets.

It doesn't bother Erik. Certainly he has bunked in far more squalid places. But he suspects it's all part of the other man's fantasy. It pleases Charles to travel on their Government stipend, simply and without footprint, as though they are in fact the humble business associates he once dreamt up as part of their cover story, should anyone inquire. No one has.

When Erik comes out of the bathroom, a too-thin towel knotted neatly at his waist, Charles is rummaging through his bag.

"Lost something?" says Erik.

Charles looks up, exasperated. "What we have here... is nothing short of Dunkirk," he says and lifts out a handful of chess pieces. "The case opened. These things are everywhere."

Erik shrugs and unclasps his own suitcase, grabbing a t-shirt. "Pity," he deadpans. "There's nothing I would have liked better tonight than a round of chess."

"Ah. So you've recovered from the trashing I gave you in Bethesda?"

"I'm still up by two, Charles."

Charles smiles. His eyes flick from Erik's, down, and lower, then back to the heap of pieces he's already rescued. "It's an invigorating past-time, I'll grant you that."

For once, Erik can't argue with him. Erik has long played chess, but it is a rare thing indeed to come across a capable opponent. Charles knows all the classic openings, which he then uses to envelop Erik's pieces in rather more inventive endgames.

And yet when they play, Charles talks too much. Always prying, prophesying. So Erik sees to it that said endgame also involves Charles' mouth round Erik's cock, all the better.

***

It goes like this: they wake up at daybreak, or a little later.

Charles is the first to stir. He finds it difficult, he says, to shut out the minds of others when he's yet groggy and soft. He'll slip from the bed carefully so as to not disturb Erik (he does), splash his face from the tap, and spend a few minutes with hands braced on the sink, gathering his thoughts.

By then, Erik is waiting for him. Today he sits against the headboard, one arm pinned behind his head, and the other slung over a sheet-clad knee, idly thumbing a loose thread.

"Come here," he says.

Charles does. In a moment, he's quite close, his breath warm on Erik's cheek before he sets his mouth on Erik's throat, laving the unshaven skin. Erik lets out a murmur of approval and runs his hands down Charles' back. The hair about Charles' temples is still damp, and it curls gently, dark beside too-bright eyes.

And then Charles is in Erik's mind. Smoke, or shadow. Erik can feel him rolling back memories, uncovering wicked things: _Open yourself to me_. Like a stone tossed down a deep well, the bottom is a long time coming.

It's _good_.

But Erik is determined to steel himself, to stretch this out, right out.

Roughly, he flips Charles over, nesting himself between Charles' thighs and grinding their cocks together. Charles is gasping. Erik drinks it all down, his mouth pressed to Charles', tongue working past Charles' teeth. And there, Charles grazes him. Such a slight movement. Erik tastes his own blood.

 _Charles._

 _Yes._ And as Charles bucks against him: _Erik, please._

Erik hardly needs to be asked twice. He reaches for the jar of lubricant on the nightstand, wrenches off the lid, and in an instant is knuckle-deep, readying Charles' perfect, tight hole.

From here, it is as though time has slowed. Erik tries to calm his pulse, to be mindful of every stroke. While this -- whatever it is they have, and Erik is not prepared to bestow names -- has been going on for less than a fortnight, he still cannot bear to cause his friend pain.

But ache? Yes, they're both accustomed to that.

***

Naturally, there are things about Charles which do annoy Erik.

For one, Charles is priggish in the way only someone who has grown up with great privilege can be. He assumes that his way is the only way, and infinitely sanctimonious, he shuns the possibility of grey areas.

And he always gives the impression he knows more than he lets on -- which in fact may be true. The damned creature _can_ read minds. And more. But Erik knows how to compartmentalize. He's certain there's a trick or two up his sleeve that Charles could scarce imagine.

Another, where Erik is precise, maintained, organized... Where Erik envisions the outcome of every action... Where Erik's possessions are minimal, meaningful -- well, Charles is one stacked paper away from a landslide. Even his oddly neat attire, from his tweed jacket down to his fingerless knit gloves ( _All the better to feel out, my dear_ , Charles once said) is unearthed daily from a hulking wardrobe full of old preparatory school blazers and overlarge fur coats.

Also: Charles is very bad with a clutch.

***

It's raining, and has been for hours, every drop a boom on the thick roof of the '59 Packard they borrowed from Moira's people. Charles was able to hone in on the location of their next would-be mutant recruit -- but the mutant herself? Nowhere to be seen.

They've been parked on an elm-lined side street since their arrival. Occasionally, Charles raises his hand to his temple and focuses his thoughts, reaches for the common mutant brain signal, but then, perturbed, begins fiddling with the radio dial. He flicks between a fuzzy talk show and top 40, and after a lull, the speakers begin to buzz with _Please, mister postman, look and see, oh yeah..._

"If there's a letter in your bag for me," Charles sing-songs along, quite softly and not lacking an ear for melody. "Oh yeah..."

Erik rolls his eyes. He doesn't raise his hand from his lap, but he taps a finger and the station changes.

 _Today Algiers gained its independence after 132 years of French rule, and eight years of violent conflict. The total death toll has not yet been calculated..._

There's a silence between them.

And then Charles dashes from the car, umbrella firmly in hand. Erik follows him, a little more slowly, taking in a second more of the broadcast before he kills the engine and pockets the keys.

"Just a moment!" he hears Charles call out. Some distance away stands a willowy young woman in a yellow dress and galoshes. Her umbrella is badly lopsided, but she holds it over herself in such a way as to not get wet. "Sonya, wait."

Erik meets them on the corner, and he looks from Charles (who smiles a little too widely) to the girl (who frowns, curious but unsure). Charles begins to project: _Sonya, don't be afraid. We're here to help -- to show you you're not alone. In fact, we're confident you can also help us. Erik?_

Erik looks at the girl. She has marvelous green eyes -- who has he known with the same? He struggles to remember. Did he ever have an aunt, long ago? But oh, this one is also distressed, and beneath that, deeply sad.

"Erik?" Charles says again, aloud this time.

"You're gifted," Erik relents. He raises his hands before him, fingers splayed, and the contents of his pockets -- coins, keys, sunglasses -- begin to wing around them. "As are Charles and I. There's a place you can go where there's no need to worry."

The girl, Sonya, looks between them. Then she drops her umbrella and is gone around the bend. As Erik runs to follow her, he sees her disappear into a neat window of violet light. The air closes around her, and they're alone.

"Next stop, Princeton," Charles says as they're walking back to the car.

"Perhaps," replies Erik, "we should do it my way next time."

***

Erik likes to drive.

This is not a new revelation: as a boy, before the war, his father occasionally risked life and limb and allowed Erik to navigate the narrow roads outside the city. Erik's feet just grazed the pedals. They only traveled short distances, but that scarcely mattered. With that big engine running strong beneath him, Erik had never felt so powerful.

And this reaction is perfectly human.

Now, Erik drives not for the heady sensation of controlling a large, heavy object: what is that to him but a ghost of his own abilities? He simply delights in distance and speed.

Even before they left Washington, Charles had let the Packard stall at each successive red light, unable to time clutch and gear ( _One simply doesn't drive much a Oxford..._ ), so Erik took sole responsibility of getting them where they needed to go. Charles, on the other hand, makes sure the highways are mercifully clear before they select a route.

In the open, with the way stretched long ahead, Erik begins to relax. It's still an hour or more to New York City. Charles talks at length about Hank's accomplishments, and in particular the wonders of Cerebro.

"That first time..." he says, wonderingly. "To use my gift, to so truly expand my limit. It brought on a feeling not unlike ecstasy. Hank couldn't have known _that_ when he designed it. How do I repay him for such a thing?"

Erik reminds him, not unkindly, of how he revealed Hank to be a mutant.

"A young man in his position?" Charles retorts. "He should be proud."

"And what of others? There must be more mutants in public view," says Erik.

Charles looks out the window. The late afternoon sun streams through the glass, giving his skin a ruddy hue, from his brow down to the exposed triangle of throat beneath his unbuttoned collar. "My friend, I hope that's so."

Some time before dark, they pull off the highway into a public park. Charles is tired of sitting, and so is Erik. It's warm. But the place is empty. They find a picnic table and set the chess board, and this time, they play through to the end without interruption.

"My thoughts are off-limits, Charles."

Charles scoffs and raises a hand in mock sincerity. "You have my word. No peeking."

But Charles still wins. Erik can't decide whether he let it happen, or if it was just bad luck.

***

"Come, Erik, really," Charles says, a bit blearily. "You mean to tell me you've never had a black and tan?"

Erik shrugs. "I simply know what I like."

"Tsk. No sense in being habitual." Charles motions for the barman, two fingers raised, with the other hand braced against the bar to hold himself straight. "Another of these for me, and one for my friend."

When the pints are set before them, Erik first takes his time to drain the dregs of his pilsner, catching -- and dismissing -- Charles' expectant glance. And then he sniffs the new beer; sips it; ever so slightly smiles.

"Well?" Charles prods, swallowing down a mouthful.

"I think," Erik says, "I can learn to appreciate it."

Charles grins. _Good_.

Later, another few rounds between them, they exit out onto the pavement, Charles' hand on Erik's shoulder. His breath is sweet; against Erik's better judgement, they finished with schnapps.

For a moment, Erik believes Charles will lean in to kiss him. The contact would be welcome. It's just past midnight, and the street is empty, but Erik also knows better -- he makes ready to steer Charles away, back to their dodgy third-floor motel room, which, he reassures himself, is only two blocks away.

In fact, Charles instead decides to make a displeased warble and stumble for the alley. Erik follows him, frowning down at his feet, mud squishing under Italian leather.

"Charles? Are you--"

Here Charles loops his fingers in Erik's belt. _Closer._

Erik allows himself to be pulled forward: Charles' back is against the damp brick, and Erik holds himself above him, his hand white-knuckled on the wall beside Charles' head. The kiss, when it comes, is toothy and rough, and it sends a bolt of arousal straight to Erik's cock.

"Bed," he breathes. "Now."

"My dear, I thought you'd never ask."

***

The club is loud, smoky, and bright, the domain of ad men and Wall Street stiffs -- hardly the Berlin-like cabaret Erik had envisioned upon seeing the seedy exterior.

But the intent is the same. The currency is still amusement. Intoxication. And sex. Girls dance on the bar tops in thigh-high boots and ludicrous heels, and Erik slowly scans between them, martini in hand, supposing that yes, if one of them is a mutant she will be nigh impossible to resist.

A slightly damp hand brushes Erik's: Charles, back from the men's room, an all-too amused expression softening his features. "See anything you like?"

Erik sniffs. "You're sure she's here?"

"Of course." Charles taps index finger to temple, briefly, and slides onto the neighboring stool. "And close." He closes his eyes. "Yes, quite close."

A lovely dark-haired girl comes around to them, side-stepping glasses with expertise and grace.

Erik looks to Charles, waiting for the go-ahead. Charles nods.

"Courtesy of the United States Government," Erik says, suddenly cheery. He pulls a crisp fifty from his breast pocket, and then holds it up and out as the girl stops before them.

Just as she begins to kneel closer, Charles says under his breath, "My friend, I do believe our fortunes have turned."

For the life of him, he can't say why, but Erik thinks Charles is right.


End file.
